


Spoken Like a Melody

by Lexie



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-01
Updated: 2011-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-26 18:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexie/pseuds/Lexie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Kurt spends the first ten minutes that Blaine is gone sitting in the driver's seat and stewing in silent self-righteous fury. He can't </i>believe, <i>after all their talk of romance, that Blaine decided that the time and place to take each others' pants off for the first time was a drunken romp in the backseat of his mother's Subaru after he'd been grinding up on a Warbler to the soulful strains of Rihanna singing about sadomasochism.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Spoken Like a Melody

**Author's Note:**

> This was written when the spoilers about the kids having sex first came out, so now that 3x05 has aired, it's been thoroughly jossed! Title from "Those Sweet Words" by Norah Jones.

Kurt spends the first ten minutes that Blaine is gone sitting in the driver's seat and stewing in silent self-righteous fury. He can't _believe_ , after all their talk of romance, that Blaine decided that the time and place to take each others' pants off for the first time was a drunken romp in the backseat of his mother's Subaru after he'd been grinding up on a Warbler to the soulful strains of Rihanna singing about sadomasochism. For God's sake, the car door was still open when he went for Kurt's belt. It's not like Kurt is terribly worried about disapproval in the well-lit parking lot outside of a gay bar on drag night, but he has standards. Standards involving privacy. Making out -- really hot making out, he has to admit -- is one thing; clothes coming off is something else altogether.

He can't understand why Blaine would think that deflowering each other in such a giant cliché was a good idea. Granted, Blaine is drunk enough that he cheered when the DJ accidentally played the first few bars of a Toby Keith song, but Kurt doesn't think that everything they yelled at each other (something in his stomach curls up unpleasantly at the memory) was because of the jello shots. Blaine looked genuinely hurt just before he threw his arms up and stormed off.

Kurt checks his phone. No texts; no missed calls. He glances up. There are still plenty of people coming and going across the parking lot, weaving through the rows in laughing, chatting groups of two's and three's. A big group of smokers has established itself just outside the doors. A drag queen dressed head to toe in a particularly eye-catching shade of sequined fuchsia crosses just in front of the hood of Blaine's car. She calls out to someone; a man turns around and they hug, laughing, before linking arms and heading toward the bright lights of the bar. Kurt thinks about dancing with Blaine before everything went to Isaac Mizrahi for Target in a handbasket, Blaine's arms warm around him and his smile close to Kurt's; the way he'd been able to lean in and kiss him whenever he wanted. He thinks about the way Blaine had stumbled while stomping off across the parking lot, and how loose-limbed and pliant he'd been under Kurt in the backseat as they frantically grabbed at each other. Unease and remorse slowly begin to creep in around the edges of his anger.

He lifts his iPhone again, running his thumb along the edge of the case. He shouldn't have let Blaine go, he thinks with sudden clarity; he had tried to keep him there in the parking lot, but Blaine wasn't having any of it and Kurt should have tried harder. Blaine shouldn't be 17 and not exactly physically imposing and _that drunk_ and wandering through Columbus alone in the dark. Kurt's throat constricts; he pulls up his contacts list and taps Blaine's name -- and he nearly hits his head on the roof of the car when a ringtone blares loudly. He whips his gaze to the side, and there's Blaine standing just outside the passenger side of the car. He looks down at his ringing phone -- Kurt hurriedly cancels the call -- and then slowly comes down to lean in the open window. His face is set and his eyes are still unfocused enough that Kurt knows immediately that he's still feeling the last round of shots that Sebastian Warbler had talked him into.

"You waited," he says, almost like it's a surprise, which makes Kurt flinch with startled hurt. Did he _actually_ think that Kurt would steal his mother's car and leave him two hours from home, intoxicated and alone and stupid?

"It's your car, Blaine," Kurt reminds him, sharper than he means to. Blaine shoots him a look across the front seat but doesn't say anything as he opens the car door and slides in. He buckles his seatbelt properly after three fumbling tries at it, then pointedly stares out the window, away from Kurt.

Fine, Kurt thinks, putting the car into gear with more force than is strictly necessary. Two can play at this game.

The only sounds for the entire drive back to Lima are the hum of the engine and the occasional _tick-tick-tick_ of the blinker. Neither of them says a word. It's excruciating. Kurt determinedly doesn't glance into the passenger seat, so he has no idea what Blaine does, but when he's finally turning into Blaine's neighborhood, he finds Blaine sitting there with his elbow braced against the window and his head in his hand, watching the pavement roll along under the wheels. He looks tired. Kurt feels the same way.

He passes the Navigator, parked in front of Blaine's house in a fit of giddy excitement hours ago, and pulls into the driveway. He turns off the engine, pulls out the key, and they sit in the absolute silence of suburbia at midnight for several seconds before Kurt unbuckles his seatbelt and reaches for the door handle. Blaine says, "Kurt--" and there's suddenly a hand on his elbow.

They stare at each other across the gear shift.

"Thank you," Blaine finally says, lowering his hand. He looks defeated and Kurt doesn't know what exactly he's being thanked for or how to respond. He inclines his head faintly, cautious, and then climbs out of the car. He hears Blaine's door shut, too, and then he comes around the hood and stops in front of Kurt. Normally, they'd be teasing and smiling and hugging, definitely kissing at this time of night with no nosy neighbors or disapproving Anderson parents around, but tonight wasn't a normal date in any sense of the word, and Kurt is fairly sure that Blaine is still a little drunk.

Blaine is looking up at him, the blank sullenness of his expression now replaced by something that's beginning to look more and more like upset and possibly some remorse, and Kurt is struck by a sudden fierce wave of protectiveness. "Drink water, okay?" he orders. "A lot of it."

He blinks and then almost smiles. "Okay," he says.

Kurt holds out his keys. After a moment, Blaine extends his hand, palm up, and Kurt drops the keys into them. He pulls his bag off the floor in the backseat, where it must have been knocked by a flailing leg two hours ago. Hand clutching the strap of his bag, facing Blaine, he says, "Good night," and tries not to notice the hurt that flashes across Blaine's face.

"Night," Blaine says, and Kurt walks across the lawn to the Navigator, where he sits in the driver's seat until he sees the front door close behind Blaine.

* * *

  
Drunk or sober, Kurt's boyfriend has well-documented issues with appropriateness and gauging the proper time and place for things.

"I'm sorry," Blaine says without preamble the second that Kurt opens the door. "You were right; that wasn't what I wanted either, and I--" Kurt lunges and covers his mouth before he can say another word.

"Blaine's here; we'll be upstairs!" he calls into the kitchen, and he doesn't wait for a response from Carole. He lowers his hand from Blaine's mouth, grabs him by the wrist, and tugs him up the stairs. He leaves his door open a crack, just enough that he's technically meeting the bedroom-door-open-when-boyfriends/girlfriends-are-over family rule, then steers Blaine over to his bed and sits him down. He gestures for Blaine to scoot back against the pillows, and while Blaine toes off his shoes and does that, Kurt turns on his iPod to help muffle their voices (shuffle betrays him and brings up "Love Will Tear Us Apart," which he swiftly changes to his mid-nineties Broadway playlist). He slides onto the bed and sits directly in front of Blaine, both of their legs crossed and their knees brushing.

"You were saying?" he asks, and Blaine stares at him with that soft, smitten expression that makes Kurt's heart do gymnastics every time. Blaine has to visibly shake himself out of it.

"I never should have gotten that drunk or danced with Sebastian like that while you were talking to Karofsky, and I can't _b_ \--" Kurt widens his eyes and quickly gestures _down, down_. Blaine lowers his voice. "I can't believe I tried to take your pants off in the car. God, Kurt. That wasn't fun _or_ spontaneous."

"I don't know," says Kurt. "The kissing was pretty fun." He's rewarded by a quick smile; the one that means that Blaine is smothering a laugh. Kurt smiles back, a very little bit, already tremendously relieved that this is going better than expected, and he says, "I'm sorry I," he wiggles his fingers and widens his eyes self-deprecatingly, "freaked out, at you." He draws out the r in 'freaked,' drawling it. "I shouldn't have yelled like that."

"I'm glad you did," he says earnestly. "I mean, don't get me wrong, it sucked and a calmer conversation about boundaries and how jealous you were probably would have helped--" Kurt lowers his head and lets himself give a breath of a laugh, and then Blaine cups the side of his face and he opens his eyes again. "But you had _nothing_ to worry about, with Sebastian, and you were right. That's not how I want to remember our first time."

Kurt nods faintly, not enough to move the warm, familiar hand from his cheek. "If that's the case, why ... _did_ you get so angry?" he asks, slow and cautious.

He groans and winces. "It's all so fuzzy." Half-smiling, Kurt reaches out and pats his hair right where he knows Blaine feels it the worst when he gets headaches. The corner of Blaine's mouth quirks. "I think -- I was surprised and confused, because for some reason I thought you'd totally be into that, and I felt rejected, like you didn't want me. And I was embarrassed. I'm still really, really embarrassed."

"Blaine," Kurt says, and he reaches up and takes the hand that Blaine is touching his face with. He winds his fingers through Blaine's and brings their joined hands down to rest on his knee. "I want you." He says it firmly, despite the faint color that he knows is beginning to suffuse his face, and the way that Blaine's eyes widen. "I just didn't want you like _that_. It felt tawdry and cheap and, frankly, more than a little creepy."

"Okay," Blaine says, a little breathless and looking caught between awe and grinning like a fool. "Fair enough." His smile slips, after a second or two. "You really d--"

There's a knock on the door. They both jump and look over to where Carole has just pushed it open and is leaning in the doorway. "Hi boys," she says. "I'm pretty sure this isn't what your dad means when he says door open, Kurt."

"Sorry," Kurt says. Normally he might have a retort for that, but he's unsure of how much Carole overheard and his voice has gone on the higher, strangled side.

"It was my fault," Blaine apologizes, and Kurt pinches his hand hard enough that he yelps.

"It was not; ignore him, Carole," he says, and she snorts fondly.

"I don't care whose fault it was. Just try for more than an inch or two next time, okay?"

Kurt loves Carole. He really does. He and Blaine both nod vehemently.

"My shift starts in 15 minutes, so I'm heading to the store," she says.

He deflates in dismay. "--Oh," he says, and Blaine knows what that means, too; he pulls his hand out of Kurt's and starts to shift toward the edge of the bed, looking for his shoes.

"We can take this to the Lima Bean," Blaine offers. They can't, not really; this is a conversation that Kurt very much doesn't want to have in public.

Carole holds up a hand to stop them. "I need someone here to put the lasagna -- low-calorie, vegetable," she adds in an aside, looking right at Kurt, "in the oven at four. Finn is at Puck's house for the night and your dad won't be home until six, so if you boys think you can handle it--"

"Yes," Kurt says all in a rush. "Yes, we can handle it."

"Okay," Carole says. Kurt gets the distinct impression that she's amused. "Then I'm leaving dinner in your hands." She steps back into the hallway, her hand on the door, and she swings it out. "Open," she tells them firmly, but she's smiling as she goes.

Blaine recovers his wits first; he calls, "Bye Carole!" while her footsteps diminish down the stairs and Kurt is still gaping. "I love your family," Blaine says; "like, _a lot_ ," and he makes a big dorky gesture to encompass just how much he loves them.

Kurt loves _everyone_ in this moment. Carole, who somehow manages to be an authority figure and yet beautifully understanding; his entire family for being themselves but mostly for being out of the house; Blaine. He pulls Blaine back to where he'd been sitting before, leans in, and kisses him. He feels Blaine's mouth go slack under his and then press back, and they trade soft kisses for a few seconds before Blaine draws away and takes both of Kurt's hands in his. He's sitting cross-legged while Kurt is perched on his own feet, which exaggerates the height difference between them.

Blaine looks up at him. "What you said, the other night--"

"Oh, God," says Kurt. "I'm sorry; I really am, Blaine." He hears the front door open and close downstairs.

"No, come on -- you said that felt like lust, not love, and that really upset you, and you used to be so uncomfortable with the idea of sex."

"In case you haven't noticed, it's been eight months since I said those things. And in this particular case, it was the setting, Blaine," he says. "The setting and the fact that you tasted like a distillery."

He pulls a rueful face, then sobers. "So, in a _different_ setting...?" Kurt thinks that a lot of people would turn that into a proposition. From Blaine, it's not. It's a genuine, sweet, careful question. Kurt adores this boy, trainwreck evenings and all.

"It's love," Kurt tells him softly, and he covers Blaine's stupid smile with his own.

And then Blaine breaks away, again. "So, just to clarify, you're saying--"

" _Oh my God_ ," says Kurt. "I'm ready; I'm saying I'm ready, and I'm trying to express that readiness, so would you just--"

"Right, right, sorry, okay--" Blaine is laughing when he kisses him, tilting his head to avoid their noses bumping as he leans up and well into Kurt's personal space. Kurt sucks gently on his lower lip and is rewarded by Blaine exhaling loudly through his nose. His breath is warm on Kurt's face, which shouldn't be half as exciting as it is. They're still holding hands, and as Kurt slips his tongue into Blaine's mouth, Blaine strokes the sensitive skin at the inside of his wrists, thumbs moving slow and restless. Kurt shudders with the heat that that spreads through him, so different -- and so much stronger and calmer and less guilty -- than the heat that they'd both succumbed to in the backseat of the car on Saturday night.

He grips at Blaine's knees and pushes forward with his chest and shoulders; Blaine gets the message, suddenly smiling against his mouth, and he grabs Kurt around the waist and falls backward against the pillows with him. Kurt comes out on top of the ensuing scramble, lying against Blaine from torso to feet and grinning with the gleam of triumph. He presses a kiss just beneath Blaine's ear, in the place that he knows from experience drives him wild, and then he carefully fits a thigh up between Blaine's legs. Blaine's laughter cuts off abruptly and his whole body goes stiff against Kurt, one hand grabbing a handful of Kurt's vest. They've never done this before; they've always awkwardly avoided below-the-waist contact while making out.

"We really don't have to do this right now," Blaine says into the suddenly-charged silence, his fingers slowly running through Kurt's bangs.

Kurt studies him for a few seconds. Blaine is flushed beneath him, his eyes bright and his hair wild, but frighteningly earnest. Kurt doesn't doubt that if he expressed the slightest hesitation, Blaine would draw back immediately without a hint of complaint or dissatisfaction and they would spend the next few hours happily making dinner and singing and arguing over the best candidate for the next single from Beyoncé's new album. Kurt looks at Blaine, and he feels nothing but love and hot surety.

"I want to," he says firmly, and they share a long look, slow and quiet and heavy-lidded and fully aware of how huge the moment is.

"I love you," says Blaine softly.

"I love you, too," Kurt says, equally quiet, and they smile at each other for a few seconds. Kurt finally breaks eye contact to bend and kiss Blaine's jaw. As he does it, he presses himself against Blaine's hip. The friction is overwhelming, sending _want_ spiraling through him; he gasps sharply and clutches at Blaine's shoulder.

"Kurt," Blaine groans, squirming under him, "Kurt, Kurt," and Kurt reaches up to where Blaine's arm is flung out against the sheets, and he fits their hands together.


End file.
